Mr.

Copperfield, what the poignancy of my feelings must be, when I inform you that

Mr.

Micawber is entirely changed. He is reserved. He is secret. His life is a mystery to the partner of his joys and sorrows⁠—I again allude to his wife⁠—and if I should assure you that beyond knowing that it is passed from morning to night at the office, I now know less of it than I do of the man in the south, connected with whose mouth the thoughtless children repeat an idle tale respecting cold plum porridge, I should adopt a popular fallacy to express an actual fact.